“Tourists—visitors—love to go home and say they ate alligator gumbo,” she giggled. “Beef, chicken, veal, turtle, ham too, of course—and oysters by the ton.”
“What’s on today? Anything exotic?”
“Oh, you’re adventurous? That’s good but I’m sorry to say today’s choice is limited to mixed seafood or oysters.”
“Okay, I’ll take the oyster gumbo.”
“Good choice. Now, for the next course—take a look at the menu.” She handed me one, it had large cardboard sheets of a yellowing color that looked convincingly antique and was printed with elaborate curlicued lettering. The dishes included Crawfish Pie, Speckled Trout in Rum, Fish Stuffed with Rice and Pecans, Cajun Chicken with Yams, Meatloaf Abbeville, Jambalaya with Andouille Sausage. “And today,” said Emmy Lou, “we have Smothered Quail.”
“You’ll have to explain that one,” I told her. “The society for the protection of birds might object to that technique.”
She smiled. “Smothering is a New Orleans technique of cooking. It’s really braising, first quickly and at high heat then very, very slowly for a long time at very low heat.”
“Just my style,” I said. “It’s rare these days to find slow food. I’m sorry to say fast food has outstripped it.”
“Good choice.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll pass your order to the kitchen. Another gin fizz?”
“I believe so.”
With the gin fizz, Emmy Lou brought me some Cajun Paté. It was different from most French patés, more like Jewish chopped liver. Thyme, bay leaf and Tabasco sauce gave it a savory taste and with it came Melba toast strips.
The oyster gumbo was excellent, the oysters just beginning to curl at the edges and there had been no skimping on the oyster liquor. Regular onions as well as green onions and chopped green peppers swarm in the gumbo. At the table, a little rice was spooned into the serving bowl, the oysters were placed on that and the gumbo ladled over them. I knew that it was standard to use three kinds of pepper in the cooking—red, white and black.
The smothered quail was more than up to expectation. The cooking technique had brought out sweet, subtle flavors in a way that no other method could match. The gravy was naturally thick and far superior to the usual prepared gravy. With it, I had a side dish of red beans and rice, another Cajun specialty.
Emmy Lou came to the table afterward and pulled up a chair. “Louisiana is sugarcane country,” she said, “so we have wonderful raw sugar that we can make use of—pecan pie, bread pudding, chocolate fudge cake and calas are the most popular Cajun desserts.”
“What is that last one? I don’t think I know it.”
“Calas are rice fritters, made with sugar and eggs.”
“I’d better try those.”
I did, they were tender and sweet, and their golden-brown color made them very appealing.
I congratulated Emmy Lou on a superb meal and she glowed with pride. As I finished my thick black coffee—with chicory, of course—and said good-bye to her, I could not help wondering how much more she knew than she had told me. If she didn’t know more, she—and perhaps some of her fellow Witches—had suspicions. Were they too loyal to voice them?
O
N THE WAY BACK
to the hotel, I found myself periodically assailed by strains of jazz spilling out on to the sidewalk. Some of it was down-home traditional Dixieland stuff, some if had to be more R&B but there was also what sounded, to my not-well-accustomed ear, like the cutting-edge contemporary variety. As New Orleans was claimed to be the birthplace of jazz, I had to do a little sampling.
Funky Butt’s on Rampart Street was the first to bring me in and I stood at the bar nursing a beer while a cornet player blew his heart out. Jason Marsalis, youngest member of the talented musical family, came on then with a vibraphone, an instrument I didn’t recall seeing since Ritz Brothers movies.
Down near the river, the Dragon’s Den enticed me with its unusual location above a Thai restaurant. An Eastern theme prevailed and it looked as if it was pretending to be a turn-of-the-century opium den.
When I finally got back to the Hotel Monteleone, it was after midnight but it was as busy as midday. Cars were arriving and leaving, limos were gliding to and fro—although none drew me in—and people were gathered in knots and groups in the lobby and outside.
A saxophone wailed somewhere—do saxophones ever do anything but wail? A woman plaintively waved a sign for a tour group, looking like a Bo-Peep who had lost her flock. A man in an old gray suit and a straw hat was handing out leaflets and a couple swayed, hanging on to each other for stability.
The man with the leaflets thrust one at me and I shook my head. I had to sidestep a quartet arguing over their destination for the evening and there he was again—the man with the leaflets. This time, he pushed one into my hand before I could refuse.
I maneuvered my way into the lobby and walked across to the bank of elevators. The lobby, too, was busy and all the elevators were on other floors. Someone ahead of me was impatiently pressing the button so I waited. Idly I glanced at the leaflet. Then it grabbed my full attention and I read it carefully twice. An elevator came, emptied, refilled and departed. I think another came but I was intent on the leaflet.
BE ON THE DELTA DUCHESS
10 A.M. SAILING
TOMORROW WEDNESDAY
TOULOUSE STREET WHARF
IF YOU WANT THE BOOK
I turned the sheet over. The other side was blank. I hurried back outside and most of the same characters were still there, with one exception—there was no sign of the man handing out the leaflets. I read it again. It was crudely printed in block capitals. I tried to remember the face of the man who had handed it me but all I had was a vague impression of an elderly, nondescript face.
I breakfasted on Texas grapefruit, two eggs over-easy, bacon, sausage and grits with two cups of well-chicoried coffee; I needed fortification for whatever the morning ahead was going to bring. I arrived at the wharf to stand in line and buy a ticket for the
Delta Duchess.
Two hundred feet long, carrying over a thousand people, the paddlewheel alone weighs nineteen tons—how could I be unable to find a vessel that size? The lady who sold me the ticket said the
Duchess
was moored behind the Aquarium but all I could find there was the Mississippi River. I tracked down a portly young woman in a semi-police uniform and with a formidable-looking revolver in a bulging holster on her belt. “The
Delta Duchess
?” she said. “You’ll find her in front of the Imax theater.” I walked to the theater but again, no boat. I was at the stage now of calling her a boat when I know they liked to be called ships.
A young woman in the ticket booth at the theater said she thought I might find the
Duchess
“farther up.” This was not any nautical term I was familiar with but I assumed she meant farther up the river. The twists and curls of the Mississippi make it impossible to see which way is up, but there was a paddlewheeler tied up by Abercrombie and Fitch’s store and I walked close enough to see the name.
At last! She looked magnificent. The scene was like one from a hundred years ago—a giant behemoth from the past, tall as six stories, with flower-bedecked balconies, gingerbread trim and feathery-crowned smokestacks. I recalled seeing an impressive display of information on this and other vessels in the lobby at the Monteleone. Harbor cruises, river cruises, gambling cruises, dinner cruises, jazz cruises, dancing cruises, as well as others visiting plantations, battlefields and zoos—all were on offer. The gambling cruises seemed to be an exception in that they never left the dock. Presumably, gamblers don’t like to be confined.
All the others left the dock, though, some for two hours, some for half a day, others for the evening and some for three or four days.
The crew were all in smart white uniforms with blue piping though I looked in vain for cigar-chomping card sharks and a fiery Ava Gardner trying hard to hide her Creole origins. All the passengers stayed on deck as the steam whistle hooted and the vessel throbbed as the engines came to vibrant life. Orders were shouted, warnings against falling overboard were given out, lines were cast loose and we pulled away from the wharf. We leaned on the rails and waved good-bye to loved ones we might never see again—well, it didn’t take a lot of imagination to make that mental adjustment. The PA system belted out “Ol’ Man River” just to help us and, on the Promenade Deck, a steam calliope was happily piping out other tunes from
Showboat
through several dozen brass pipes.
I wandered around inside. The bars were open and a piano player was rolling his way through some soft jazz. Slot machines outnumbered passengers ten to one and dining rooms had window views of the river. We sailed blithely along, getting farther and farther away from the coast though still able to enjoy its endless panorama while the engines throbbed their faint but reassuring vibration.
The decor, I presumed, was that known as Steamboat Gothic and perhaps for the first time I could appreciate Mark Twain’s comment that “when I was a boy, I had but one permanent ambition—that was to be a steamboat man.” Outside, Stars and Stripes fluttered everywhere, shiny brasswork glistened in the occasional sunbeam, and wandering minstrel groups played mostly jazz. Inside, cut-glass doors and huge chandeliers sparkled like showers of raindrops while the parquet wood floors gave a comfortable homey feeling.
Now that we were “under way,” as we seafarers put it, I was able to give some thought to why I was here, especially as it entailed the next step. I viewed everyone on the vessel as a potential writer of the note that had “invited” me aboard but no one accosted me. I went back on deck where a number of passengers were taking photographs and using binoculars to spot landmarks. About a dozen cameras clicked away furiously in the hands of a Japanese contingent and I heard smatterings of Swedish from another group. Accents from all four corners of the United States contributed to a constant background.
We pulsed along. A half hour had passed and this was a two-and-a-half-hour cruise. I made myself available to being accosted on all the decks, in all the lounges and bars and rooms. I alternated between the inside and the outside. I loitered by every bank of slot machines. A weak sun was doing its best and the only breeze was that generated by the boat’s passage so it was pleasant on deck.
I did not expect to see such bustling activity on the Mississippi. Ships were everywhere, ships of all kinds. Tiny tugboats were heroically pushing long vessels, deep in the water, their decks crowded with long, green cylinders. Oyster dredgers, oil tankers, Liberty ships taking grain to the East, container ships—we passed them all. Some were coming into port and some going out—whichever way port was. I made a mental note to increase my knowledge of matters nautical.
Another half hour went by and I was beginning to wonder. I picked out the busiest bar and had a glass of California Chablis. I drank it as slowly as I could, trying to be obvious. This was a distinct role reversal for me—most times when I am on a case, I am trying to be inconspicuous.
I went back on the Promenade Deck and made a circuit of the boat. I went on the next deck and did the same circuit but in reverse. I did not allow any possibility that I was not accessible to anyone on the boat. One man wandering alone caught my eye. He had a string tie and a Western-style jacket. Was he the one? I made sure he could see me but he made no move.
Did it have to be a man? A considerable number of women were already involved in this affair via those who called themselves “the Witches.” Could my mysterious contact be one of them? No one could have missed me. I had to be one of the more clearly apparent people on the
Delta Duchess.
I had gone everywhere I could to be seen.
The PA system fed us a steady flow of information on the vessels we were passing. One was a Ground Assault Transport Carrier just back from the Middle East and looking severely businesslike in its drab-gray paint job. Six railroads came into New Orleans, said the PA, and all brought goods in and out of the port. We passed more container ships and freighters, most flying the flags of Liberia, Cyprus and Malta. “Flags of convenience,” said the PA. Rust stains smeared their once-fresh paint and indicated countless thousands of ocean miles.
Twenty-five-foot-high levees protect New Orleans from flooding, as the city is below water level, we were told. Behind them, mile after mile of warehouses and wharves looked deserted but still saw use.
Some passengers were inside eating lunch—very Cajun and consisting of gumbo, jambalaya and red beans and rice. Most, though, were on deck and there were cries at the sight of red-and-orange flames flaring into the sky. A natural-gas plant, said the PA assuringly, burning off excessive gas pressure.
About an hour and three-quarters had elapsed and I was turning away from this pyrotechnic spectacular to head for one of the cafés to have a snack when a hand caught my arm.
“Let’s sit over here.”
It was a man’s voice, slightly grating and not overfriendly. I turned. He was in his forties, with a face that had seen a lot, hard eyes and a tight mouth. He wore a plaid shirt, lumberjack type, well-worn jeans and heavy boots. A leather bag hung over one shoulder.
I followed him inside and he went toward a quiet corner but I motioned to a table that was surrounded by occupied tables. “This is better,” I said, and sat. I might not have been so affirmative but I was entering an impatient period and was still aware that one person had already been shot.
He hesitated then sat opposite. “Need to make sure I’ve got the right guy,” he said.
“If you’re a book lover, then you have.” I emphasized the “book lover.”
He gave a miniscule nod. He reached into the leather bag and came out with a book. It had a black cover and was about the same size as a hardback but not as thick. It looked worn and the cover was dog-eared.
“This is what you’re looking for,” he said.
“Is it?” I asked. “I’d have to see it first.”